The world was quiet.
Not the peace of a gentle breeze or a serene meadow—but the cold, suffocating quiet that comes before death. The kind that makes your ears ring and your chest feel heavy.
Marcus Elthorn lay sprawled across the stone floor of the academy courtyard. His body felt broken. Everything hurt. The taste of copper filled his mouth, and he could feel warm blood pooling beneath his cheek. His once-pristine blue mage robes were now torn and blackened, smoke still rising from the singed fabric.
Above him, the sky looked like dark glass. Stars flickered weakly, as if they too were dying.
A faint, bitter smile tugged at the corner of his cracked lips.
They'd done it again.
"Even in death, I'm just a weakling..." he whispered to no one.
The words came out wet and broken. A violent cough shook his chest, and more blood spilled down his chin. It hurt to breathe. Each breath felt like swallowing glass.
The elite students of the Arcanum Academy had pushed him too far this time. It wasn't just another cruel prank or a staged duel in front of laughing crowds. They'd planted a mana bomb in the training hall. Set it to go off when he tried to practice his pathetic excuse for magic. No one would ever admit to it. No one would get punished.
They never did.
Marcus had been the Academy's official target since his first day. Since the moment he stepped up to the awakening crystal and it stayed dark. No bright flash. No elemental surge. Nothing.
No fire to burn his enemies.
No lightning to strike them down.
Not even a gentle wind to push them back.
A mage with no element was worse than trash. At least trash could be thrown away and forgotten. Marcus had to keep existing, keep walking the halls while people whispered and pointed.
"Look, it's the fake mage."
"How did he even get accepted here?"
"His family must be so ashamed."
In this world where sword and spell worked together, where knight-mages ruled kingdoms and battle-wizards led armies, he had nothing. No power. No respect. Just a thin frame that couldn't swing a blade and magical energy that barely lit a candle.
Marcus tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out. His palms slipped in his own blood.
"I just... wanted to prove them wrong..." he muttered, voice getting weaker.
The darkness was creeping in from the edges of his vision. His chest rose and fell slower with each breath. The pain was fading now, replaced by something cold and empty.
He thought about his life. Eighteen years of failure. Eighteen years of being the joke everyone told at dinner parties. Even his own family had stopped writing letters.
And then—he died.
The world went black. Silent. Nothing.
Or so he thought.
---
[System Transfer Detected.]
[Soul Alignment in Progress… 47%... 78%... 100%]
[New Vessel Located — Marcus Drayven, Seventh Son of the Sword Saint.]
[Memory Integration Beginning...]
[Warning: Host body severely damaged from recent trauma.]
[Rebirth Initiating…]
---
Pain exploded through his skull.
Marcus gasped like a drowning man breaking the surface. His eyes flew open wide, pupils dilated with shock and confusion. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought it might burst.
But what met him was not the cold stone floor of the academy courtyard.
Instead, he found himself staring up at an ornate silk canopy. Rich burgundy fabric stretched above him, its corners decorated with golden lions that seemed to prowl in the flickering candlelight. The bed beneath him was soft—softer than anything he'd ever felt. The sheets smelled like lavender and something expensive he couldn't name.
Warm yellow light danced across painted walls. Tapestries showed great battles and heroic figures with gleaming swords. A fireplace crackled nearby, filling the room with gentle heat. Everything screamed wealth. Power. The kind of luxury Marcus had only seen from a distance.
A gentle hand suddenly gripped his forearm.
"Marcus? Marcus, you're awake?"
The voice was soft and feminine, but shaky. Like someone trying not to cry.
He turned his head slowly, his neck stiff and sore. Every movement felt strange, like his body didn't quite fit right.
A beautiful woman leaned over him, her face inches from his. She had pale silver hair that caught the light like moonbeams, and worried emerald eyes that seemed to glow. Her skin was porcelain smooth, and she looked far too young to be anyone's mother. But the way she looked at him—with desperate relief and bottomless love—told him exactly who she was.
"W-who are you...?" he rasped.
His voice sounded different. Younger. Higher pitched. This wasn't his throat.
The woman's face crumpled. Her lips trembled, and tears started rolling down her cheeks.
"It's me, your mother," she whispered, reaching out to touch his face with shaking fingers. "You've been unconscious for two weeks... ever since that sparring match with your brother Cain. The healers said... they said you might never wake up."
"Cain...?" Marcus blinked hard, trying to focus. That name wasn't from his world. None of this was from his world.
Then the memories hit him like a brick wall.
The explosion. The pain. The darkness. And that strange voice that spoke of systems and rebirth.
Reincarnation.
He had died.
And been reborn.
But as his new memories flooded in—memories that belonged to this body, this life—he began to understand the sick joke fate had played on him.
'Marcus Drayven.' That was his name now. Seventh son of Lord Commander Gareth Drayven, the legendary Sword Saint who had never lost a battle. The man who could split mountains with his blade and whose very presence made armies surrender.
In this new world, magic existed—but it was a joke. A curiosity. Something scholars played with in dusty towers while real men and women fought with steel and aura.
Here, power flowed through your fighting spirit. Your will to dominate. Your ability to channel raw energy into devastating attacks. Warriors could move faster than lightning, hit harder than siege engines, and heal wounds that should have been fatal.
And mages?
They were seen as weak. Cowardly. People who hid behind fancy light shows instead of facing their enemies with honor.
The original Marcus Drayven had been the shame of his family. While his six older brothers had awakened powerful aura cores before their tenth birthdays—some becoming knights, others joining elite guard units—he couldn't even lift a training sword without falling over.
He was spoiled, cowardly, and utterly useless. A disgrace to the Drayven name. His own father had stopped acknowledging him in public. His brothers treated him like an annoying pet. The servants whispered about him behind closed doors.
He was, quite literally, "a failure" in both worlds.
Marcus felt his hands clench into fists under the silk sheets. The soft fabric bunched between his fingers.
'Not again.'
He wouldn't spend a second life on his knees. He wouldn't be the weakling everyone pitied or ignored. If this world thought mages were weak, he would show them magic that could tear kingdoms apart. If they worshipped aura and swords, he would create something that made both look like children's toys.
The woman—his mother—was still crying softly, stroking his forehead.
"I was so scared," she whispered. "When Cain brought you back, you were so pale and still. The healers worked on you for hours, but your aura core was completely shattered. They said even if you woke up, you'd never be able to fight again."
Shattered aura core. That explained the constant pain in his chest. But as Marcus focused inward, he could feel something else stirring. Something that definitely wasn't aura.
It felt like electricity running through his veins. Like fire and ice dancing together in his bones. Power that had nothing to do with fighting spirit or warrior pride.
---
[You have awakened: Forbidden Magus Core (Hybrid Variant)]
[Initializing Integration: 0.1% Complete]
[Warning: Magical energy detected in Aura-dominant world]
[Stealth protocols recommended]
---
A strange blue text appeared in the corner of his vision, glowing softly like moonlight on water. His mother didn't seem to see it.
Marcus felt his lips curl into a faint, dangerous smile.
Magic. Real magic. The kind that could reshape reality if you knew how to use it. And unlike his previous life, where he'd been limited to one pathetic element, this felt... unlimited. Like standing at the edge of an ocean of possibilities.
"So..." he whispered, his voice carrying a confidence that hadn't been there moments before. "It begins again."
His mother pulled back, blinking in surprise at the change in his tone.
"Marcus? Are you feeling alright? You sound... different."
He looked up at her with eyes that held depths they hadn't possessed before. The scared, weak boy was gone. In his place sat someone who had died once already and refused to do it again.
"I'm perfect, Mother," he said quietly. "Better than I've ever been."
The magical energy pulsed stronger in his chest, and Marcus began to plan. This world feared magic because they didn't understand it. They saw only the weak court wizards who could barely light fires or heal small cuts.
They had never seen what a mage could truly become.
But they would.